Occupational Therapy

Modern medicine can prolong life, and yet there is this interesting limbo into which the elderly can be thrust.  My Dad is in rehabilitation in order to regain enough strength, in theory, to return to living independently.  However, at the moment it is hard to see if that is possible.  Every day, he is walked by physical or occupational therapists to a nearby exercise room, and does rounds of very simple arm and leg exercises.  They give him a lot of time between repetitions, because it exhausts him.  Somehow, your life flashes in front of your eyes, and you see a six-foot tall blond father at the wheel of the old Comet station wagon, or teaching one of us to ride a bicycle, or reaching to hit a lob on the tennis court.  Blink again, and God bless him, here's this tiny figure struggling to make the smallest move.  My Mom lived a year and a half after an aneurism that was supposed to kill her, and she became the Queen of the living room chair, calling in courtiers and politely enduring respiratory therapists.  Yet toward the end, chewing was exhausting.  Breathing was exhausting.

It is humbling, this whole process.  Most of us will go through some variation of it, and being with an elderly parent at age 60 is a mirror of what could well be in future.  Every emotion in the book has threatened to swamp my little boat this week, as things I'd suppressed after my mother's and brother's deaths surfaced.  I'm doing my best to try to remember my own divine self, and deal as much as possible with my Dad's, brother's, and the caretakers' divine selves  too-- that holy energy around them, not the shrunken, stressed or overworked bodies we are in. I guess in this kind of situation, that's the only "occupational therapy" there is.  

Horizons

A number of years ago, I began painting "horizon paintings," simplified oil (and occasionally acrylic) paintings of earth and sky or water and sky.  My main inspiration for a year or two was the scene outside my window in Duluth, Minnesota, of awesome Lake Superior, a body of water nearly impossible to capture as an image.  Horizon lines took on a bigger symbolic meaning for me, the meeting place of dualities (good and bad, large and small, heaven and earth, etc.)  At times I explored this visual image in imagined horizons, and sometimes in real ones (Lake Superior or Lake Champlain, mostly.)  Many of these paintings have made their way into the homes of friends and family, and I had forgotten how many of them my Dad and brother have out here in Montana.  The English landscape has inspired me to start painting again, and it will be interesting to see whether I retain the stark simplicity of these early paintings or take on a new style.

Walking yesterday from my Dad's rehab center back to downtown Helena, the mountains (as expected) were my focus.  New snowfall made them brightly visible, and the Montana color palette revealed itself as usual to be as utterly different from England (or even the US East Coast) as can possibly be imagined: browns, blues and whites, mostly.  When I lived here four years ago, this almost alien landscape (for me) served an important purpose.  It almost forced me to "remember" my passion for the opposite color palette and opposite quality of light.  I felt lost and disoriented in the mountains, and wasn't able to even temporarily feel at home.  Time has done its healing thing, and I feel more centered in myself, so I can stay in the present and respect -- even love -- this dramatically beautiful place.

My Dad's horizons are permanently changed by medical events that might, a few decades ago, have killed him.  He's still here, but the circle is closing in.  Horizons that were once "out there" are now just as far away as the reach of his hand or the oxygen tank.  As I walked out of his facility into the bright Montana sun, I was perhaps even more grateful for feet to walk the mile and a half, the eyes to see distant peaks, and the heart to love it all.  Dad's situation is a reminder that these things must be cherished as long as possible.

Angels

Many years ago, I wrote a story about angels.  Its premise was that they are all around us.  Unfortunately, like a lot of my creative output over the years, it ended up packed up in a box...if I ever find it, perhaps I will publish it here. 

I'm actually not a big angel person.  I've never directly experienced an angelic presence, seen an angel, or had dreams or visions that I attributed to that kind of spiritual being.  I don't own any "angel cards."  However, two days ago, as part of the Hay House World Summit offerings, I listened to a conversation with "angel expert" Kyle Gray.  Truthfully, I originally clicked on it because I was somewhat cynical about the title: "Raise Your Vibration with the Angels."  I certainly have been trying to raise my vibration, but just on principle, not because of wanting to connect with angels.  I don't know whether it is the effect of being in such a powerful transitional moment again or his delightful Scottish accent, but in the end, it was a really moving hour of listening, and his talk reminded me, at the very least, to be aware of the human angels in my life.

There have been many over the years, a living chain of beautiful, welcoming people who have not only made my offbeat journey possible, but who I truly believe are transformative beacons of love and light energy in the larger sense.  With my eyes more specifically attuned these last 48 hours, I have experienced the angelic in reconnecting with some people in Montana who were important in my journey (I lived here for two years several years ago.) I have also watched some excellent, sensitive medical staff deal with my Dad, who has had a cascade of issues hit him at almost-91. Our health care system may be quite broken, but I believe many -- perhaps even most -- of the individuals within it care deeply about other human beings and demonstrate an almost other-worldly level of patience, humor, professionalism and grace when dealing with their pained, uncomfortable patients.  A number of other smaller and larger "miracles" happened these last two days as well, making me, in this early hour of the morning, almost a believer!  At the very least, if I had forgotten my own message of twenty or more years ago, I think I've remembered it again, and will be keeping my eyes open...

Mother's Day, for women who are not...

For years, I have half joked about, "when are they going to create Single Childless Women's Day?"  Mother's Day, as much as I have tried not to make it so, has always left me feeling slightly wounded, inadequate and invisible.  Perhaps it was a form of shame.  How did I manage to get through life without becoming a mother?  It doesn't matter why one isn't a mother (each of the reasons hold some "wobbly" feelings, don't they?), I can only speak for myself in saying that tomorrow is one of those days of the year when I'd like to walk around with a paper bag over my head.  My own mom has been gone for years, and after briefly touching base with my dearest friends who are moms, I usually do, metaphorically, hide.

And yet, I also want to take this opportunity to celebrate myself, and all my childless friends.  I know, know, know, that all of us are exceptional people.  All of us -- yes, I firmly believe this -- have been "mothering" in alternative ways.  We have taught. We have created art or writing or music or dance.  We have at times taken care of sick ones, or young ones, or friends who need a friend.  We have been there with and for others, often family or other women in need.  We have gardened or healed the land (we absolutely care about the future of Earth!)  We have fed people nutritious meals.  We have shared our wisdom.  We have often worked for free and some of us have left only a tiny footprint.  We have struggled with our freedom and yet also loved it.  And some of us have perhaps paradoxically found new ways to exemplify the Mother aspect of the Divine.  We are a new paradigm.  We are re-visioning women's roles.  If indeed around half of American adult women are unmarried, that means a great many of us have no children -- we are becoming quite significant, actually.  Not invisible after all.

But I'd also like to say that more than ever, I bow down before my friends who are mothers.  They have done something exceptional.  Intimidating.  Something I could never have done, which may be why it didn't happen.  I've been trying to write about their experience, but I cannot, of course.  So I guess all I can say is that I honor the different set of sacrifices, second-guesses, limitations, even inadequacies involved as well as the joys, the pride, and the delights.  I suspect that Mother's Day is no more the greeting card event for mothers than it is for non-mothers.  It is human, and messy, and not one-sided.  It's possible that the day needs expansion, to celebrate all the women (mothers, wives, sisters, teachers, aunts, friends, and single scouts on the cutting edge) who make this world the vibrant place it is today. Bouquets of flowers for all, please!

That next step

Sometimes that next step just appears underfoot, as the only next step you can take.  That step materialized over the last 48 hours or so.  My dad seems to have hit the 90-plus health wall, and this weekend, I will fly out to Montana to see him, and be there for 10 days helping my brother with everything that is going on. 

Early this morning, I was in quite a state.  I lived out there for several years; to say that the Rockies are not my natural milieu is the understatement of all time.  I'm not eager to return, and having made the commitment, I spent almost an hour of pre-dawn time questioning my decision.  This is where I believe that modern modes of communication (email, social media, etc.) are literally a godsend. Between the exceptionally wise and supportive notes I received from friends and some links to videos by equally wise spiritual teachers, I was able to get a wider view and see the potential blessings in the days ahead: possible growth and healing with family, get-togethers with dear friends, and the opportunity to tell the rather amazing story of what I have experienced since I saw folks about two years ago.  The stark beauty of the West has never felt nourishing, but who knows how two years have changed me, and whether those mountains may have something to tell me?

It becomes clearer and clearer that, as mentioned the other day, I need to open my arms to an income that is steady even when I am on the move.  I've contemplated the possibility of signing up for ads on this blog, but as of today, cannot quite bring myself to do it.  Perhaps my readers can energetically help me open myself to inspiration and out-of-the-box ideas that I am comfortable with.  An out-of-the-box life seems to require out-of-the-box "jet fuel." 

"Leaving on a jet plane..." Again!

Memories

There is no question.  I'm right in the middle of "transition chaos" (although frankly, I don't think it is chaotic.  I think it is the Universe taking thousands of factors, in the move from one reality to another, and helping you organize them before movement forward.)  And adding to the transition adventure this time is attention to the health of my 90-year-old father over two thousand miles away in the Rockies, and the realization that with this kind of fast flowing life, I absolutely need to embrace an income that is steady, even when I am moving.  Having virtually no income because traditional employment can't keep up with my "journey home" has outgrown its novelty(!) I just put that out there today.

In the midst of it all, of course, I do what I actually do best, which is movement inward.  The contemplative nun just takes over.  Sometimes I think Hildegard is even a better model than Julian because of her leadership qualities.  Her "mother superior" persona forces me, as the transition chaos swirls around, to meditate, to focus as solidly as possible on my center so as not to get lost.  This time I've had a little help, in discovering that the Hay House World Summit 2016 is about to start.  There's a huge line-up of fascinating presenters, all online and all, as far as I can tell, free if you sign up.  Can there ever have been a time in history when such a rich palette of human growth teachers and inspiration has been available at the click of a button? Surely not. Anyway, I listened this morning to an interview with Brian L. Weiss MD on meditation and past life regression.  He led a meditation to help you access a happy childhood memory, and usually these things absolutely do not work with me.  But this time, I returned to a memory that I may have already mentioned in a previous blog -- the time my grandmother helped me set up a tea set made from acorns and acorn caps, under an oak tree in front of our house.  She and I sat down (I was probably about four) and placed "teacups" and "teapots" and tiny twig silverware on an oak leaf "tablecloth" on the rich green grass, between the tree's knotted roots.  She told me that if I came back the next morning and the tea set was gone, then the fairies would have had a tea party in the night.  Sure enough, the next morning, everything was scattered -- was it to the wind, or the fairies?  I'll never know. 

But it is interesting that this particular memory would return right now.  I love the notion of this ancient oak overspreading grandma and me, rooting us to the sky and the earth.  I love the notion that she believed in fairies and magic, since I don't remember her having ever otherwise spoken of them.  I love the idea that a memory of "putting it out there" for magical forces to use would come to me now.  Because in this kind of transition, that's "the work."  Put it out there. Take the step.  Visualize the impossible, the magical, but also partying among life's gnarly roots.  And then visualize the sparkling fairies in the dark sipping their tea and bringing you aid.  I mean, why not?  In the miracle of a lifetime that has spanned a grandmother-granddaughter tea party in about 1960 to cups of tea in England in 2016, someone has been there for me, and however you visualize these divine forces, I'm sure thankful.

Moves

When I am in the UK, I use a mobile phone that has a solitaire game on it.  It's your basic card game on a screen, good for passing the time occasionally on a train or the tube.

Every few games, a message pops up saying, "You might be out of moves... select New Game from the menu."  Now, early on, I assumed that the game was over at this point and, yes, I would start a new game.

However, at some point, I came to the realization that this message actually (and rather diabolically!) popped up most frequently when I was on the cusp of winning the game, or at the least, when there were in fact many possible moves left on the screen.  It's almost as if it has been programmed to try to keep people from winning.

All right, you have me pegged.  There's a metaphor here.  Especially for someone with a life like mine.  Periodically, I look at the game of my life and the message that pops up on my "inner" screen is, "you're out of moves, girl. It's sure been interesting, but you're not going to get permanently to your goal, so forget it.  Game over.  Start over from scratch."  And, yes, for years that's what I did.  But I think the same thing can be true in life; at the very moment you think, I have no clue how to proceed, and it seems like the game of life is totally unwinnable, that may be the very moment when in fact you are practically at your goal.  Certainly, it is a moment when it's best to take a deep breath, not lose heart and not overreact. 

If my metaphor is correct, then this can be when there is about to be a life equivalent of that moment when all the cards start to move of their own accord -- "swoosh" -- into the piles of suits.  The momentum that has built up can't stop itself.  The key I guess is not focusing so much on "winning" the game, but just getting beyond that discouraging inner discourse to make the next move, even a tiny one, in the direction of your dream.  That's my plan for this week!